Sherlock's Secret
by tonnesoftinytulips
Summary: John finally founds out about Sherlock's secret and confronts him (possible trigger warning)
1. Chapter 1

It had probably started a long time before this; if Sherlock was seeking to hide something, it would stay hidden. Even so, John couldn't help but find himself surprised. Hurt, even, that his friend would keep something like this from him. But then again, maybe he had been dropping hints, wanting John to find out for months, and he had just been ignoring them, subconsciously hoping for it not to be true.

There was that time when he'd found it difficult getting up the stairs, John suddenly recalled. He had hobbled up a few steps, leaning heavily on the banister, before finally accepting John's helping hand, but not without glaring down at the carpeted floorboards as if the world was conspiring against him. And that other time he refused to take his coat off even though the sweat was beading on his forehead. Or the time, even before that, when Mycroft made that jibe about his wanting pain more than anything, and Sherlock had gone suddenly silent, before kicking his brother out of the flat with a sudden ferocity. And he was forever tapping his leg, or banging his arm against something and wincing with a sudden, shameful pain that always took John by surprise. He always refused to talk about it afterwards, of course, and John would just push it from his mind. But not this time.

This time, John took the hint.

Turning the razor over in his hand, he found some bloodstained fingerprints smeared across the handle. A sudden revulsion and disbelief sent the cursed blade tumbling from his shaking palm to land with an enormous clatter in the silent apartment. He sat with a thump on the white tiles of the bathroom, leaning against the side of the bath, and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

_How could I have not seen this before?_ he couldn't help asking himself, but he already knew the answer, and it repulsed him: because he hadn't cared to look.

His best friend - Sherlock Holmes - had been hurting himself, all of this time, and he - John Watson - had not cared to look for clues, no matter how obvious they may have been. What a sorry excuse of a detective he was.

…

"John? What are you doing here? I thought you'd be home with that wife of yours."

"Uhm, yes. I mean, uh, I called Mary. Told her I'd be home late."

"Why? Are you going somewhere?" He looked as normal as ever. Then again, Sherlock always looked normal (unless he was cooking up one of his grotesque experiments, or brandishing a gun). That was the problem.

Taking off his beloved coat and ever-preasent scarf, the great detective leaped straight onto the sofa by the the bare wall at the side of the room and began tacking up random bits and pieces over the wallpaper. Preasantly, he spoke.

"Have you come to help me with this case? I sent you a text about it. It's really quite interesting, which makes a nice change, don't you think?" He threw a lopsided smile over his shoulder, then pulled out a marker pen to draw rings and arrows through and around his bits and pieces.

"Er, no. As a matter of fact, I'm not here for the case." He stopped drawing suddenly, and turned to face John.

"No?" Genuinely disappointed, he pulled a face at his sidekick. "Fine, then. What are you here for? It can't be all that interesting, I suppose." Brandishing the marker, he fell back to his task of linking and circling.

"Mrs Hudson phoned. She said she was worried about you."

"Worried? That daft woman gets frantic if I tell her it might rain. I can't tell her a single thing! You'll have to be a little more specific." With the last few words, he capped his pen and hopped off the sofa.

"Yes, but Sherlock, usually these 'single things' are your deductions on possible terrorist plots, or criticizing the poor woman's clothes! Anyway, that's not the point. She said she, uh, found something that I should take a look at. So I came over." Suddenly, he stopped. What was he supposed to say? It was a delicate subject, after all.

Looking up from where he was starting his laptop, Sherlock caught John's anguished expression and straightened up.

"And..?" He prompted, his forehead creased, eyes narrowed.

"And, I, uh. I think Mrs Hudson was right to worry."

"Oh, get to the point, John. I have a case to solve! Which, incidentally, I am doing on my own because a certain someone cannot be bothered to help me out." He smirked.

"Sherlock! I have a family now! What'll happen if I end up dying while I'm out solving one of your god damned mysteries?"

"You won't." Sherlock muttered distractedly, attention already being drawn back to his laptop screen. "Anyway, you enjoy it. It's only a matter of time before you're back helping me with a case." he promised, raising an eyebrow at his laptop, and typing a quick string of letters.

"Look, I – Anyway. That wasn't the point."

"And what was the point?" He straightened up again, grabbing John by the shoulders and pushing him aside so that he could stride pat him into the kitchen.

"The point was, I saw, Sherlock."

"Saw what, sorry?" came the response. He appeared back in the room, clutching a bundle of papers, dropping them on the table before consulting his laptop again.

"Your things, Sherlock. In the bathroom." Everything was suddenly silent, the entire flat listening for Sherlock's response. John took a breath. "Look. I understand that being as..." he struggled for a word for some seconds, filling the silence with a drawn out 'ahhh...' "brainy, as you are, things tend to be a bit more difficult for you. I just..." another pause. This time, he waited for Sherlock to say something. He didn't. "I just wish you had told me. I could have helped you. Or at least tried."

Again, he waited for a response. None came. The silence had completely taken over the flat now. Only the slight humming of the laptop tried to break the eerie quiet, and it sounded incredibly lonely in such a silent room. The world outside Baker St seemed to have fallen under the spell of silence as well: no ambulances zipped past, no people shouted, no taxi cabs honked.

"Well?" John finally demanded, "say something." But Sherlock seemed frozen, like a victim of rigor mortis. "Sherlock? Why did you do it?"

"I...uh..."

_Well I never,_ John found himself thinking, _Sherlock Holmes lost for words. I never thought I'd see the day!_ But he quickly banished the thought when his friend looked at him. A shamed look, like a cowed dog, begging for mercy through its eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. I just can't help it." This made absolutely no sense to John. It just didn't compute with anything he'd seen at all.

"Can't help it?" he exploded, "can't help slashing yourself, Sherlock?" (he noticed that Sherlock winced at that, but couldn't help himself) "Can't help picking up that bloody razor and making yourself bleed? You can't – bloody – help – it?" Clenching his fists, John glared murderously across the room at his friend. "I was _here_, Sherlock. Right bloody _here!_ And you didn't once – not once! - consider telling me, your best friend!" Sherlock's face was impassive.

"I don't understand why you're overreacting like this, John." He eventually remarked, sitting himself down in the wooden-framed chair by the table.

"Overreacting?" John spat out in disbelief.

"You were in the army, and you're a doctor! Surely you've seen things like this before!" he watched as Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, obviously confused and upset. He found himself shaking his head.

"Yes, but that isn't it, Sherlock."

"Then what is?" John forced himself to take a few deep breathes. Yelling wasn't going to get him anywhere.

"How long has this been going on?" He demanded.

"I don't know. A while." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, like a scientist watching a test subject for unprecedented results.

"You're Sherlock Holmes! How do you not know?"

Sighing like an exasperated child trying to explain technology to a confused and largely deaf grandfather, Sherlock rocked back in the chair, tipping his head back to gaze at the ceiling.

"A few months. I didn't think to tell you. I'm sorry."

"You- I- You _didn't think to tell me?" _John spluttered incredulously.

"Yes, I apologise. Now, can we please talk about something else?" he asked the ceiling.

"No. No we can't. Sherlock, this is serious."

"I didn't think to tell you because I knew you'd want me to stop!" he cried suddenly, like a desperate man on the top of a cliff, a step from the edge. "I'm sorry. I said that already, didn't I? Now can we please drop the subject?" He was watching John with a look of such confused irritation and wretched pity that for a second, John could barely stand to face him.

"Where?" He choked out finally.

"Hmm?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, attempting his default sarcastic expression. It just made him look even worse, like a dying actor pretending he was as fit as a fiddle for the sake of his audience.

"You know what I mean. Where. Where have you cut yourself?"

Sighing, Sherlock let a hand drift to his head, where it massaged his temple.

"I don't want to talk about this, John. Please, stop."

"No."

"Please."

"Look, Sherlock, I just-"

"John, stop. If you carry on about this I will be forced to remove you from the premises."

"What?" he demanded, dumbfounded.

"You heard what I said." he glared, with an intensity John was not accustomed to.

"No, I will not stop. We need to talk about-"

"Fine." He jumped from the chair so suddenly that John took a step back. "Get out." Holding out both arms so that he couldn't get past, Sherlock bustled him out of the doorway and onto the landing so quickly John wasn't entirely certain of what had just happened.

"Sherlock-" but that's as far as he got. The door swung shut in his face.

…


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey... it's, uh..." **sigh** "it's me again. Sherlock, please pick up. I'm sorry." **sigh** "I'm worried. So's Mary. So's Mrs Hudson – she says she hasn't seen you in days. But I know you're there. Just... please pick up."

A pale hand floated just above the phone, contemplating.

"I know that you're going through a hard time, but... I'm your friend, Sherlock. And if you can't talk to me, who can you talk to? The neighbours'll think you're insane if you go around muttering to yourself again." A slight sound like static as he chuckled slightly. "Although I suppose they already think you insane, huh? But... anyway," **sigh** "please just... just call me back, ok? I am here for you, I promise." **beep beep**

The hand rushed down all of a sudden, making a desperate grab for the phone and yanking it up to his ear.

"John?" But he was already gone.

…

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Sherlock? Open up! I've had enough! Either you open this damn door or I

I'll break it down!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Sherlock!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Alright, you've asked for it! I'm breaking it down!"

"You're paying for the damage, young man."

"Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. Now, stand back."

Ba-bump! Ba-bump! Ba-bump! Ba-bump!

"Jeez!"

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, it's just this door is hard."

"Yes, well it's thick wood."

"...yes. I gathered."

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. More mumbling and the sound of Mrs Hudson's heels clip-clopping along the landing, but he tuned it out. Would they ever leave him alone? It wasn't like he was locking himself away just so they could come and ruin his peace. All he wanted was to be alone for a while. Was that too much to ask?

Ba-bump!

Apparently, so.

Sighing again, he heaved himself off the sofa and trailed over to the door.

Ba-bump! Ba-bump!

"Who is it?" he called pleasantly.

"Sherlock?"

"No, actually. This is the current Prime Minister."

"Open the door, Sherlock!"

"Why should I?"

"Because I've had enough of your sulking!"

"That's not a reason, that's your opinion. And anyway, I'm not sulking."

"Fine then, I'll break down this door and you'll have to pay for repairs!"

"How tiresome." he muttered – a phrase he had stolen from his brother, he noted irritably. He unlocked the door and swung it open with rather much more force than was necessary before stumbling back to the sofa and resuming the position he was in before.

"Good god, you've let yourself go, haven't you?"

"Hmm?" It had been a while since he'd seen John, that much he was sure of. How long, he had no idea. It had to have been more than a few days though.

"Why have you got all the curtains closed?"

_Because I dislike seeing myself any more than I absolutely have to._

"The sunlight was hurting my eyes."

John strode over to one window and threw back a curtain. Wincing, Sherlock sat up and glared disapprovingly at him.

Appraising the room, John strode over and sat beside him on the sofa. He didn't comment on the bloodstained bandage that hung from Sherlock's arm, or the ripped pyjama bottoms and ratty dressing gown that he was sporting. Instead, he sat and gazed in the same direction as him for a minute or so. Then he turned and looked at Sherlock. Just looked at him. Nothing else. It wasn't like he was attempting to seek reasons in the lines of his face, or trying to make him talk first without saying anything like he might usually do. John was just looking at him, like an uninterested spectator watching TV when there was nothing good on. Just flicking through the channels, looking.

For some reason this looking compelled him to speak. He found words spouting from his mouth before he'd even planned them – a rare occurrence.

"John, I am so sorry that I didn't call you back. Believe me, I was going to, but... but I got sidetracked." he stopped himself, suddenly confused. "How long has it been?"

"About... two weeks." John smiled, but his eyes were dangerous. Sherlock had come to recognise that look. He was angry.

"Two weeks? Well, no wonder I'm bored, then. Two weeks without a case..."

"What about that one you were all excited about?"

"Oh, I solved that."

"Mmm, of course you did."

He looked at John for a second, wondering if he was going to start shouting yet.

"Did I hear Mrs Hudson?"

"She went downstairs to get me a paracetamol." Apparently not. But he would. Soon.

"Well. Have you come across any interesting cases recently?" he stood, straightened his stiff back, wincing at the pain in his legs and arms that stretching inflicted.

"Two weeks, Sherlock!" There it was. The anger. Sherlock never could work out how he managed to wind John up so much. It just always seemed to happen, somehow.

"Yes. A fortnight. I'm sorry. I didn't realise it had been so long." He found it just a tad ironic that he was the one apologising to John after John was the one who yelled in the first place.

"Oh. Oh, you're sorry. Well that makes _all_ the difference then, doesn't it!" Sherlock turned. John was standing as well, a furious expression on his face. It had taken him a while to master facial expressions – it was just always so tricky to read human behaviour; they had so many expressions and such a lot of body language! – sometimes he still found it difficult (which was ridiculous. He was a world-renowned detective that couldn't recognise when someone was happy or sad!), but with John it was always fairly obvious. You could read him like a book, and Sherlock had taught himself a lot about facial expressions from that book. Right now he could tell that John wasn't just angry, or upset, he was sad as well. The way he held himself made him appear confrontational, and territorial, like a leopard with a bad taste in sweaters fighting for land, but it was also drawn back, wary. He was hurt. Sherlock had hurt him. That was ridiculous – he had only ever wanted to hurt himself, not John. Never John.

"I am sorry, John. I honestly didn't realise." Now. How to go about fixing this. This sort of thing was not something Sherlock excelled at.

"Two weeks. Two bloody weeks!" John's voice cracked. Uh-oh. "I thought you were dead!" Sherlock frowned.

"No you didn't. Otherwise why would you have carried on calling me?"

"So you did get my calls? I thought you'd killed yourself, you BASTARD!" Suddenly, John was lunging for Sherlock. He tried to sidestep, but it was too late. Bracing himself, he waited for a punch to the jaw or stomach, but it never came. Instead, Sherlock found himself encircled in John's arms as the other man buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and muttered "you absolute bastard," over and over again.

"Um... what are... uh?" Finding himself unable to form complete sentences, Sherlock gave up and started processing what John had said earlier as an alternative.

"You thought I'd killed myself?"

"...bastard..."

"I'm far too fond of myself for that. You should have learnt that already."

"..."

"Ah... John?"

"..."

"Can you let go of me now?"

"..."

"Uh... please?

"..."

"...John?"

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he would have to extract John himself, Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"Uh, I've found the para- oh. Have I walked in on something? I'm sorry, I'll just leave you two, shall I?" That roused John sharpish. He jumped away from Sherlock as if burned and glared at the landlady.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm married!"

"Oh, I'm sure Mary won't mind, but just to be on the safe side I won't tell her, alright? Mum's the word." She tapped her nose conspiratorially.

"I'M NOT GAY!"

"Any louder and the people in the city centre may have heard." Sherlock muttered, collapsing backwards into the wooden chair by the table, wincing at the movement. Had he really inflicted so much damage on himself that the simple task of sitting down caused him pain? He must have been really out of it, he decided.

John twirled back to face him and pointed an accusatory finger. "Careful, you. I've only just forgiven you, ok?"

"Alright."

He didn't listen past that point. Like before, he tuned out the unnecessary sounds of his friend and his landlady bickering. Instead, he took refuge in his Mind Palace: built from the memories and experiences he carried with him. Whenever he needed to find something stored away, or simply wanted a quiet corner away from the bustle of everyday life, he would take refuge in it's infinite walls and rooms.

But this time something was wrong. The walls shimmered with a sickly light, lending everything an eerie yellowish glow. No matter how much he tried, the light just would not disappear. This had happened before, of course, but usually with a little willpower he could make it fade away so he was barely noticing it. This time it was in every room, down every hall, making the imaginary wallpaper contort into devilish faces, jeering and snarling.

"Oh dear..."

Whirling about, Sherlock was faced with Mycroft, that infernal brother of his. Why did he always have to appear at times like this?

"What are you doing here? Get out of my head!"

"Oh dear..." Mycroft's eyes were hooded as he glared down at his cane, and then back up to Sherlock's face. "You have an addiction, Sherlock-"

"No. No, I don't want to hear it! Leave me alone!" It was the same words as the last time the two of them had seen each other, and a chord of panic flared up somewhere within Sherlock's ribcage.

"-I never thought I'd have to say this, but it's the truth. Your want for pain is far greater than anything I've ever encountered..."

"Don't say it. Don't you DARE-"

"Brother mine."

Sherlock leapt towards him, but Mycroft seemed to blend in with the shimmering wallpaper, and all of a sudden, he wasn't there anymore.

"Oh dear... You have an addiction, Sherlock."

"STOP SAYING THAT! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!" Sherlock twirled about in circles, searching frantically for the source of his blasted voice, but all he could see were the mocking faces of the wallpaper as it shivered and flickered in his line of vision.

"...but it's the truth-" Sherlock took off running. He didn't know where he was going; he couldn't concentrate properly. Only very few times before had he ever been brought to the edge of panic like this. He found that breathing was impossible – he was drowning! How was he drowning? Surely that wasn't possible?

Hurtling along corridors, down stairs, through tiny broom-cupboard sized rooms, until he finally found himself in a great extravagant ballroom, shimmering and sparkling so Sherlock felt as if his eyes were going to explode with the pure craziness the scene brought to his retinas.

"...Brother...Brother...Brother..." From all corners of the vast room came Mycroft's voice, echoing and merging with the wallpaper. His voice shimmered all about Sherlock's head, and Sherlock spun, again and again, trying to get a grip on where it was coming from, but he couldn't breathe – oh God, why couldn't he breathe?

Suddenly, right beside his ear came a hiss: "Brother mine."

Sherlock cracked his neck attempting to seek out his quarry, but all he saw was a slight movement that didn't fit in with the shivering walls. Glancing up, he was just in time to see the chandelier falling, as if in slow motion from the vaulted ceiling, glittering and shining. It was heading straight towards him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but it was too late. He was aware of Mycroft standing slightly to his left, watching in disapproval as his little brother struggled with reality.

"You have an addiction... your want of pain... addiction... addiction...addiction..."

…


End file.
